


Pull my heartstrings, carve yourself into me

by assassi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Mates, Slow Build, Some angst, background sterek, petopher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 20:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17270243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assassi/pseuds/assassi
Summary: It took him a moment to realize he was laughing hysterically, so hard that tears were running down his face. Were they from laughing or were they from something else? How cruel was fate? How was that possibly his life? The very thing that had kept him going, kept him alive all those years was the same thing that had destroyed his whole world. A hunter! A hunter of all people! He couldn’t have a hunter for an anchor! He couldn’t have a hunter for a… for a…





	Pull my heartstrings, carve yourself into me

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I had to write :) Any mistakes are mine, do tell me (but nicely :)) if you see any. Also, let me know what you think :)  
> ALSO! This was inspired by GnuS Cello. Check it out on youtube. That guy is amazing and he did really remind me of Chris somehow :)

 

The first time he heard it he was 15. Back then it was him who was the basketball team’s star. Derek, barely 9 at the time, only played with him in the backyard of their house.

The game had just ended, the team still celebrating their victory in the hall. Peter had slipped out. He was not really all that sociable, preferring to brag with his skills rather than build real friendships.

It was then that he heard it – the soft melody coming from a room with its door firmly shut. Was it a cello? It was… so gentle, so… perfectly flowing that Peter followed the sound without thought. He was just about to reach out and open the door when there was a loud bang from the other end of the hallway – the team had spilled into the corridor, searching for their captain.

“There he is! Come on, man, where did you go?”, Sam yelled.

“Yeah, dude, did you get lost or something?”, Jimmy, always thinking he was so smart with his quips.

“Alright, boys, go get yourselves clean”, coach somehow out-yelled them before clapping Peter’s shoulder and smiling. “Good game, Hale.”

He just nodded silently. His mind was elsewhere and he could barely wait for them to get the fuck away before he opened the door to the music room. His annoyance for his teammates grew exponentially when he found it empty. It felt like it was their fault that he had missed something really important.

It felt like he had missed a chance.

*

Paige had never really played the cello. But Peter had always had a thing for drama and he liked adding a personal touch when he told the story.

He never acknowledged why it was exactly a cello that he chose for his version.

*

The next time he heard someone playing he ran there immediately, determined to catch the elusive sound and the talented musician. The girl holding the cello blinked, surprised at his rush. Big brown eyes stared at him curiously.

“Hey”, he said simply, smiling in that way that he knew made people give him anything he wanted.

Ah. There it was – she blushed charmingly, stuttering back a weak hello.

“What’s your name?”, he asked.

“Corinne”, she answered timidly.

“Can you play some more for me?”, he smiled again.

She did.                                                                         

It wasn’t the same.

*

And then the fire happened. The only thing that kept playing on repeat in Peter’s jumbled mind while he was trapped inside his own body was the soft melody from a lifetime ago. It wasn’t enough to keep him sane. But it was enough to keep him alive.

*

Laura wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a revenge he had thought about executing through her. But years of helplessness and pain made him unstable and when he was finally back to a resemblance of life, he snapped. She was just unfortunately close…

*

And then he died. By the hand of his own nephew, and rightfully so, as he would come to understand years later. At the moment it just made him angrier. And then it was inconvenient. And short-lived. Unlived? Short-died? He needed a body, you see, to keep up with his plan. Which was what again? Peter wasn’t sure. But he was sure he needed a body for it.

Lydia was delightfully helpful.

…Until she learned to scream.

*

Derek was stubbornly unhelpful. But at least he let him lurk around, sticking to… pack? Ha! As if…

But at least it kept him from becoming an Omega.

*

Derek managed to mess things up on a whole other level as an Alpha. All of his betas were unruly teenagers who had no sense of respect. And don’t even get him started on Jackson! That was a whole other fiasco.

How Derek managed to land a mate like Stiles was beyond Peter. How they both managed to be blind enough not to get it was something he tried to take advantage of but was, sadly, quickly rejected. Stiles didn’t want the bite. Or at least not from him.

Nevermind. He wasn’t Peter’s mate anyway. At the time he was even positive that he had no mate, no perfect other half waiting somewhere out there to right his life and get him back on track, to bring back some sense in his existence.

A half-forgotten memory of a sweet melody tried to resurface from the back of his mind. Peter squished it down.

*

There was something about the new girl in the pack. She looked familiar somehow. She didn’t smell familiar. But he had the weird feeling that she _should_.

*

Malia’s mom was called Corinne, Peter found out.

Malia had her mother’s eyes.

…And her dad’s temper.

*

The Benefactor _and_ Kate Argent coming back messed him up even more. He knew he was losing it when he teamed up with her against… whom? What was he after? He had no idea anymore. His life was a mix of fractured moments where in one second everything looked like it followed his (mad, completely mad) plans and then everything came crashing down.

His head was pounding and it felt too small, his chest too tight, his fingers itched until claws sprang free and he tasted blood in his mouth as his fangs dropped down too quick and uncontrolled, before even his shift managed to accommodate them. He was a monster let loose, a wolf without an anchor, a bomb with the wrong wire cut…

And then he caught it again, soft and perfect like in his lone memory of the only time he had heard it. He followed it like a madman, shifted and running towards the sound, his ears fixed on it, remembering and comparing it to the one all those years ago. Everything inside him, everything that he was, was fixated on this sound, his whole world revolving around it.

It felt so right following that sound… right until he realized where he was and the smell of wolfsbane hit his nose. He realized he hadn’t even made an attempt to be quiet and sneaky, instead rushing unprepared… right into the hunter’s lair.

Argent stood there, gun firmly pointing right between Peter’s eyes and even with the distance between them Peter knew without a doubt that Argent wouldn’t miss. The hunter was poised, taut as the string of the bow his daughter had wielded…

Or as the strings of the cello, propped against the wall behind him, bow discarded on the floor in the face of danger.

Peter’s eyes, fixed on the cello, went wide and his breath got caught in his throat. He felt a cold chill running down his spine. Was that…? Could he…?

It took him a moment to realize he was laughing hysterically, so hard that tears were running down his face. Were they from laughing or were they from something else? How cruel was fate? How was that possibly his life? The very thing that had kept him going, kept him alive all those years was the same thing that had destroyed his whole world. A hunter! A hunter of all people! He couldn’t have a hunter for an anchor! He couldn’t have a hunter for a… for a…

…no, he would have known if Argent was, if he was… Peter would never have impaled him on an iron rod, would have never hurt his…

…no…

He knew he was choking on his own breath, down on his knees before a hunter, weak and pathetic and could Argent please just finally pull that trigger?

No. No, he couldn’t, apparently. Peter was vaguely aware that Argent made a phone call, quick and to the point, before grabbing Peter and pulling him on his feet. Peter took a deep breath; of wolfsbane, leather, laundry detergent, confusion and a bit of annoyance, loneliness, determination and something dark and masculine. This was his life now. For as long as Argent didn’t pull the trigger…

*

Argent watched him slowly sip his soup, propped against a few pillows on the bed. Argent’s bed, in Argent’s house, eating the soup Argent had provided. It didn’t even have wolfsbane in it: Peter had sniffed it, not even trying to be subtle. It was so fucking surreal. And the man just sat there, on a chair right in front of Peter and stared at him.

“Wanna tell me what that meltdown was about?”, he rumbled.

Damn, even his voice was sexy.

Wait, what? He’d never been attracted to men.

Then again, it didn’t really matter if Argent was truly his m-…

Peter’s eyes flicked to the cello and he promptly choked on his soup.

*

“So. I didn’t know you played”, Peter said.

What was he still doing there? It was a miracle really that Argent hadn’t killed him yet, with their history. Especially with their history.

Argent, rinsing up the bowl from the soup, snorted.

“It’s been years actually.”

“I know.”

Argent looked up, immediately alerted. He raised an eyebrow. Peter cleared his throat, looking away.

“That’s not the first time I’ve heard you. There was this one time. At school.”

“Ah”, Argent nodded. “Well, that was all the chance I got to play at all, back then. I had to hide, in a way. Gerard wasn’t exactly thrilled as you can imagine.”

His voice was bitter. Peter could relate – he knew what was like to be a beta under a domineering Alpha.

“You said you didn’t know I could play”, Argent frowned.

“I remember the song. Didn’t know it was _you_ ”, Peter shrugged.

Argent nodded.

*

When Derek came to pick him up later – because apparently he needed a drive in his state – he exchanged a long look with Argent but thankfully didn’t say anything to the hunter. Peter thought he had been humiliated enough, by his own self.

The first half of the drive was silent. Until even Derek couldn’t remain stoic in the face of…

“So? Is he your mate?”

“Is Stiles yours?”, Peter countered.

And then it was quiet again.

*

Derek wouldn’t have done anything about his own predicament. Luckily he had a much smarter and active mate, who took the initiative.

As he watched them finally together Peter tried to be happy for his Alpha, for his last remaining family except for an absent Cora. He tried to not be petty and pathetic, comparing himself to them and how it could (never) be like between him and Argent.

*

It was Stiles who showed him the video. The melody was different but just as beautiful. The artist had chosen to go with a nickname of sorts. All that could be seen of him was the lower half of his face, sporting a light scruff. The hand moving the bow looked strong and capable and those fingers led Peter’s brain straight into the gutter.

“I gotta admit, he’s quite good”, Stiles remarked.

“Who?”, Peter tried.

Stiles snorted. “Come on, you scheming bastard, you could never convince me with this act of playing dumb; not after everything we’ve been through.” He looked thoughtful for a minute before he added, “I just wonder how he became that good. I doubt he could practice with dearest dad around.”

“Yeah, he had to be careful and hide”, Peter muttered.

Stiles smirked. “Well? Are you ever gonna address the elephant in the room?”

“Shut up, Stiles”, Peter huffed, eyes still locked on the video.

*

Argent’s new little house was on the edge of the Preserve. That was all the reason Peter had to eventually end up here: slumped by the back wall, carving into a piece of wood with a hunting knife he had positively stolen and pouting like a petulant child. He was just tired after his run, that’s all. He was a wolf and wolves had needs – like _running_! But he was not 20 anymore, so… yeah.

He said all that to the smug hunter hovering above him with a riffle on his shoulder and a rabbit in his hand. Argent looked at it contemplatively and sighed.

“You should have called. I doubt a single rabbit will feed a starving wolf but I’ll do my best.”

Peter’s head snapped up. Chris smirked.

“I think I have a few more stocked in the freezer.”

*

“I saw the video”, Peter eventually said, after two seconds of the stew and close to a bottle of wine. The wine was for taste’s purpose only since he couldn’t actually get drunk on it. But he _imagined_ it could give him just the spark of bravery to get these words out.

Chris hummed.

“You’ve gotten better”, Peter admitted.

“Thank you”, the hunter said quietly.

“How..?”

Chris huffed. “Online lessons.”

“You must be a natural talent to only need those for such perfection.”

The words slipped out of him without his full consent and he blanched, mortified with himself. His fork clinked loudly on the floor as he bolted and ran.

*

“ _Come **on** , Failwolf, it’s not that hard, even Derek and I figured it out!_”, Stiles screeched in his ear.

Peter held the phone farther from his ear, thumb and middle finger rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he promptly ended the call.

*

He had been roaming the woods for days, shifted and half-mindless. He had thrown away his phone and he wondered if Derek and Stiles would flip out. Once he thought he heard his Alpha’s roar in the distance but he was too far away and it wasn’t enough to bring Peter back to submission. Somewhere in the back of his head a small voice noted how that roar had sounded more concerned than furious but Peter shook his head and told that voice it was only a wishful thinking.

It was exhaustion that made him finally stop running. Not the man standing in front of him unarmed, feet firmly planted on the ground, his whole posture sure and unmoved. But his eyes spoke another story. Pale blue met iridescent blue and called Peter back to sanity, or as much sanity as he had left at all.

“What are you doing here?”, Peter rasped, still stubborn even as he barely remained on his feet.

Chris smirked. “Hunting.”

Peter made a point of looking straight at the _lack_ of weapons on the hunter’s persona. The bastard had the nerve to smile wider.

“It’s not that kind of hunt.”

Peter shrank into himself.

“They told you”, he wheezed.

“Maybe they should have. But they didn’t”, Chris shook his head.

“Then how…?”

Chris sighed. “There is finally some point in my family making me study all about werewolves.”

He reached out a hand.

Peter was still reluctant.

“Why?”, he insisted, still wary, still waiting for the catch.

_Why would you want that? With me?_

“We both have nothing left to lose. Might as well just try that”, Chris shrugged, hand still held out. “Come on, Peter. Come back with me.”

Nothing left to lose. He was painfully right. Even his own life didn’t mean much to him right now. Losing it if that turned out to be a trap wouldn’t be much of a trouble. He smirked.

“Would you play for me?”, he asked with a shadow of his old self, the one that could flirt and charm anyone.

Chris snorted. But he nodded.

Peter took the hand.

*

“Where did you learn to cook?”, Peter asked, on his way through a third helping of lasagna. He loved his fast metabolism.

Chris smirked, shaking his head as if just having read his mind. Huh. Was that a thing? Between mates? Unclaimed mates? He should check.

“I was always around my grandma when she cooked. Ka… my sister sure loved to tease me about that.”

Peter stared. He caught the slip, of course he did. But what was really important here was how thoughtful Chris was, how careful not to open up old wounds and cause him pain. Peter was unused to that. He looked back down, poking at the last few bites of his serving.

“It’s very tasty”, he muttered.

*

It was later on that very same night when Chris caught him shuffling in the living room, wolf pacing nervously inside him, blue human eyes contemplating the front door.

“Stay”, the hunter simply said.

Peter eyed him, always on edge, always ready to bolt, even now as he knew what they were to each other, what they could be.

Chris sighed. “Do you really need an explanation? Another why?”

Peter looked at the door again. He had already catalogued every other exit too. His wolf wanted to stay; his wolf wanted to run. This man was both his fate and the ultimate danger.

Again, Chris seemed to understand. He nodded to himself, lifting his hands in surrender.

“Your choice. I’m going to bed”, he just said, walking up the stairs to his bedroom.

Peter remained by the door and tried to ignore the scent of slight disappointment.

*

He was shivering, badly. It was cold downstairs. And the couch was lumpy. And his skin itched.

Peter stood in front of Chris’ bedroom, staring at the sleeping hunter like the creep that Stiles always said he was. His instincts were conflicted and he couldn’t pick a side.

“The left. I sleep on the right”, a deep, sleepy voice rasped out.

Something stirred Inside Peter.

Something flashed in warning.

Something howled with the need of basic, grounding touch.

Chris groaned.

“Just… c’m’ere.”

Peter stalked into the room and slipped carefully next to the hunter. It took a minute or two before he wiggled closer and carefully draped himself behind the man. Chris slept in just his boxers. Skin on skin contact was… amazing.

For the _wolf_.

“’s warmer ‘ere, ‘t’s all”, Peter muttered petulantly.

“Uh-huh”, Chris allowed. “Just know that I ain’t always gonna be the small spoon.”

 _Always_.

Already?

Peter was surprised to realize he wasn’t scared.

*

The next morning was awkward fumbling in the kitchen and trying to figure out what the other one ate for breakfast, how he took his coffee, what he wanted and expected from now on. Peter ran right after that.

*

It took a while of back and forth, of coming and going before the wolf finally settled. And realized that he didn’t have to leave in the morning.

What cemented that was Chris’ reaction after a violent nightmare that had Peter bolting in bed, panting and shaking, tripping into the bathroom and frantically splashing water on his face, on his arms, wherever he reached.

Strong hands gripped his shaking form and boldly manhandled him, repositioning him in a way that Peter’s jumbled mind couldn’t grasp at first. He was completely out of it; he knew he must have trashed and lashed out, maybe even with claws and fangs. Until he felt cold water pouring all over him and realized he was dragged under the shower. The hands still gripped his biceps, grounding instead of restraining. The water rained down on them as Peter tried to breathe, just breathe. The first thing his eyes focused on when he finally opened them was a muscular chest. Peter closed his eyes again and just slumped into it. Chris didn’t say anything. The arms changed their grip, holding him tight as he shook helplessly, slowly coming back to himself.

*

There was a small wooden statuette of a cello on the table when Chris entered the kitchen the next morning to start the coffee machine. He smiled to himself.

Later, Peter found the statuette on the most visible shelf in the living room.

*

The first time they had sex was… unexpected. Peter had always assumed it would be a spur of the moment, fast and hard, a reaction to something he had spat out or teased Chris about. He had imagined desperation and thorn clothes, maybe some irritation and anger if he had gone too far to rile the hunter up…

He never expected it to be slow and gentle, starting with dinner, then a hesitant hand on his hip as he had left his dish in the sink, _asking_. He hadn’t expected the slow ascent of the stairs, the long glances and hooded eyes, that were both hungry and hesitant… so open. It was all written there, in those pale blue orbs.

_I really want that. Do you? But also… it’s been years since I’ve done that…_

If he didn’t know better Peter would never be able to tell.

After the longest foreplay that almost made Peter want to crawl out of his skin Chris slipped inside him so slowly and carefully as if he was fragile, made of glass. They both panted, their breath mingling as their lips almost touched, and Peter was suddenly reminded that it had been years for him too, and maybe too many since he didn’t remember it ever being so intense. Chris nuzzled his nose into Peter’s, gathering his attention. Peter looked up into a small smile and a single raised brow. He nodded minutely.

Chris started to move and it was strange, good as Peter hadn’t actually expected. Chris’ thrusts were shallow, circle-like and strangely… thorough, as if the man wanted to reach every hidden place inside Peter. Peter felt weird and a bit inadequate, shaking and trashing on the bed as if he hadn’t done this before.

(He hadn’t, not exactly that, but Chris didn’t need to know. And yet it seemed that he did.)

And then the next thrust was deeper, aimed straight into Peter’s sweet spot.

He took in a deep breath, a surprised half-gasp as his eyes flew open wide, neon blue. His hands quickly let go of Chris’ back, sharp claws digging into the sheets and tearing into them. He must have looked quite shocked and maybe even a little bit scared because Chris stared right back at him, scent full of quiet reassurance. He grabbed Peter’s clawed hands and intertwined their fingers, gently thrusting straight into Peter’s most intense pleasure spot, pale eyes boring into Peter’s wild iridescent blue orbs.

Peter’s orgasm was long and drawn-out and it hit him like a bullet train. His mouth opened on a silent scream as he came and came and shook helplessly in his mate’s arms. Just a moment later, as if he knew exactly what to do and what Peter ultimately needed, Chris bit into his neck, muffling a moan that would have made Peter come all over again, all by itself, if he hadn’t just come his brains out. Chris slumped over him and for a while they just let themselves be, slowly coming back to their senses.

After that he didn’t immediately pull out, instead rolling them to their sides, facing each other, and indulging the wolf’s tactile need of touch.

Snuggling, though Chris would never admit it, wasn’t _just_ for Peter’s benefit after all.

*

More wooden figures appeared around the house. Peter seemed to reach for a knife when he was restless, tired, content or bored; basically – with no certain mood in mind. They got better with time, too, more complicated.

“Have you thought about doing something more with it?”, Chis asked.

“Hmm?”, Peter asked distractedly.

“With your hobby.”

Peter nicked his finger with the knife and quickly sucked on his wound, looking up at a snickering Chris with a petulant frown.

*

Chris got him some real carving knifes. A whole set of it.

*

They weren’t much into talking but Chris always seemed to know when Peter needed it. Sometimes he would come back home, too wound up to give the wolf what he needed. He would come through the front door and see Peter lurking by, restless and throwing him quick side glances, expecting. Chris would shake his head minutely and go to the range, or just for a walk in the Preserve.

And then sometimes he would catch Peter’s eyes and smirk, leading him upstairs to their bedroom. There, he’d let the wolf sprawl right in the middle of the bed, back propped against a few pillows and a slight dreamy smile on his face as he listened to Chris play with his eyes closed. It looked like through the soft music Peter was stealing back pieces of his sanity, of his peace.

*

And being inside Chris made Peter lose all of his hard-won sanity.

In the end, in turned out that Chris had been the one who managed to rile Peter up. In a way Peter hadn’t imagined, revealing a side of him that he wasn’t really aware of.

_“I just can’t believe that suave little you has never done it with a man before”, Chris had smiled over the rim of his coffee mug when Peter had begrudgingly admitted the fact._

_Peter growled. “Why, have you?”_

_The hunter shrugged. “Yeah. A few times in college, before Victoria.”_

_Peter saw red._

He hadn’t expected the wave of possessiveness that suddenly drowned him. The need to stake a claim, to make his mate forget all his past lovers, everyone but Peter!

To be fair, Chris seemed to be caught slightly off guard with Peter’s fierce response of dragging him into the bedroom and promptly ravishing him; while he let all that happen he did seem a little tense through the first half of it, as if a bit worried whether Peter’s control over the wolf would snap.

It never did.

Peter’s prep work was nowhere near as slow and gentle as Chris’ had been. But thorough it was. To be fair there was probably a bit too much tongue involved, as well as bite marks. Chris groaned when Peter literally mounted him, slipping inside firmly. But when Peter immediately stopped moving it was the hunter who moved back the rest of the way to have Peter buried to the hilt.

Peter tried to keep it slower at first but it was easy to get lost in his mate. And Chris did seem to like it a bit more rough so Peter was soon pounding into him, half-delirious but still having the presence of mind to always make sure those grunts were ones of pleasure and never pain. Chris seemed to enjoy it too if his firm grip on the headboard and Peter’s thigh, as well as meeting his thrusts half-way was any indication. Peter was so close he could literally taste it on the tip of his tongue.

Still, there was something missing and Peter found himself chasing their orgasms but unable to reach his own. Chris was also close enough judging from his moans but Peter was getting desperate. It was almost painful to be so on the very edge of it and still unable to fall.

An animalistic growl bubbled out of him and he pulled out suddenly, frustrated. Chris made a confused sound, a half groan, half irritated huff before he was quickly flipped on his back and Peter entered him again, in one long slow thrust. He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had held back and looked at the hunter’s slightly pinched face.

“Experimenting with edging, Hale?”, Chris groused.

Peter snorted before realization struck him. “I just needed to see your eyes”, he said on a moan as he started moving again.

He knew it was the very thing that would help him reach completion.

…But only after his mate.

*

Chris’ own mating bite, made high enough on his neck to always be visible made something finally settle deep within Peter. A sense of rightness engulfed him, the possessive monster inside him purring contently.

Chris spared him a single glance over breakfast, rolled his eyes hard and called him an animal.

But there was a fond smile on his face.

*

That very same smile Peter caught one morning, soon after their mate-bond was settled. He just opened his bleary eyes and stared right into pale blue. He groaned, burying himself deeper in his own pillow, in his blankets, in warmth.

“Are you watching me sleep?”, he mumbled, half slipping back into dream-land.

“Yep”, Chris just said.

“Creep”, Peter said, mostly whispered.

Chris chuckled. But his voice was serious when he said,

“Thank you.”

“Hmm?”, Peter fought to open his eyes again. Chris stared right into them.

“For somehow finding it in yourself to let go and let me in. To be open with me – please don’t make bad puns – to be this soft in the morning and real and… you.”

Peter’s lips twitched with the plea of no puns, but he didn’t laugh. He just sighed contently, closing his eyes and burying his face in Chris’ delightfully naked chest.

“Weirdo”, he muttered.

But his arms crawled around Chris and held on tight.

*

Peter leaned on the side of Chris’ truck, waiting for the man to finally be done with his errands. He had only agreed to use that monstrosity because his current piece of work, sitting in the back, was quite big itself. Peter had thought about dumping it on Stiles and Derek – there were more than enough sculptures back home.

“Hey, man, did you make that?”

Peter turned around and looked at the man, pointing at the majestic wooden eagle. He nodded.

“Cool! Do you sell it?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Over the man’s shoulder Chris’ smug face and wide smile said it all.

*

Of course there were rainy days too. Figuratively and literally.

Peter sat, drenched to the bones, on the edge of the steep cliff, overlooking the part of the preserve where the Hale house had once stood. He thought that if he stared hard enough he could still spot some of its sad remains. They should have given up on the land long ago. Let go of the memories and pain.

The sound of the engine behind him made him tense but he didn’t turn around. Not even when the sound died, replaced by quiet footsteps. For a while Chris just stood behind him, not saying anything. Then he sighed and sat down next to him. They sat there in the rain in utter silence for close to ten minutes before the hunter spoke up.

“Would you come home if I promise not to leave my weapons scattered around and not to bitch about the wet towel you leave on the bathroom floor?”

 _Come home_.

Peter smiled sadly. He looked up at the pale blue eyes he had grown so accustomed to. When had that happened?

“You know it’s not about the bullets or the fucking towel, right?”, he muttered.

Chris winced but nodded and his hand squeezed Peter’s.

It was the anniversary of the fire.

*

It hit him one day, out of nowhere. Nothing had happened, nothing had hinted about a sudden realization. They were lounging at the den, watching crappy TV when Chris sighed and stood up to go fetch some coffee. Peter sat up straighter from his slumped position on the couch, his eyes falling on random objects in the room: a few of his wooden sculptures, a bow on the armchair, a Glock on the coffee table where Chris had been cleaning it and Peter no longer flinched from it. His eyes followed the hunter. There was a picture of Stiles and Derek stuck with a magnet on the fridge. Speaking of fridge they had to stock up on milk and red meat soon. His gaze fell on the stairs and the wobbly railing, its poor condition courtesy of a vigorous making out session. Nails, he added on his shopping list.

And then it hit him: he was _home_.

“Remind me to buy some creamer, we just ran out”, Chris said handing Peter his mug. With his perfect coffee in it, just the way he took it.

Peter stared at the cup.

“What?”, Chris frowned.

Peter looked up and smiled, slow and wide.

Chris smiled back.

 


End file.
